The Irish Westerns Boxed Set

by C. H. Admirand

  “Can’t take a chance that infection will set in.”

  Woozy with blood loss, dizzy from the pain, she lifted her left hand to his face. He was so beautiful. She hesitated—his eyes widened then darkened to a deep forest green. Had he guessed her intention?

  No matter. It might be the last thing she did here on Earth. She gave in to the overwhelming need to touch, sweeping the tips of her fingers along the fullness of his bottom lip.

  He stared at her, but didn’t say anything. Embarrassed by her boldness, she asked, “Promise ye won’t cut off me hair?”

  A deep chuckle rumbled within him. She leaned against him—he was her anchor in the sea of pain threatening to swallow her whole. The comfort of his heat, and the strength of the muscles rippling beneath the linen of his shirt and leather vest, seeped slowly into her bones, relaxing her.

  It had been far too many years since she’d leaned against Rory, depending on his strength to carry her through. A sudden wave of cold surprised her. She shivered.

  Joshua had pulled away from her and was looking down into her eyes. “Trust me,” he asked for the second time.

  She tried for a smile, but knew she grimaced. ‘Twill have to do. She nodded. The comforting warmth of his big body deserted her as he pulled even farther back. He placed a hand on top of her wounded arm, his large callused palm and blunt-tipped fingers curling around the tender flesh. It was strange—her arm looked dainty beneath his large hand.

  He braced himself, and she could not stop the involuntary reaction as her body tensed up in response.

  Joshua bit out, “Relax.”

  A glance up revealed thin streams of sweat trickling down from his temples. When he locked his jaw, she swallowed the comment poised on the tip of her tongue. It would do no good to harass the man now with her complaints. She needed his help, and he was willing. What more could she ask?

  The startling green depths of his eyes hardened a split-second before his left hand squeezed her arm, while the other pushed the arrow. The gut-wrenching sob of anguish echoed all around her, but she was too lost in the pain to notice it that she was the one who cried out. A large hand deftly swept her tangled mass of hair over her shoulder and cupped the back of her head, pulling it against his rock-hard shoulder. Her body quivered violently, reacting to the pain.

  “The worst is done,” he rasped.

  She wanted to scream, but held it in. “But not over?”

  “Not quite.”

  “If ye miss the arrowhead and tear a strip off me back, I’ll not be mindin’,” she choked out. “Me Da always said I’ve a few stone to spare. Losing a bit won’t matter too much.”

  “I won’t miss,” he vowed.

  A grunt of exertion, followed by a draft of air passing behind her, before the arrow shaft moved inside her arm as he lopped the head off it. Her lips were so dry, she touched her tongue to them to moisten them. When she did, a groan reverberated from deep within the man who still held her protectively to his chest.

  “Are ye done then?” She desperately hoped so. Her vision grayed with the movement of the arrow.

  “One more thing,” he promised.

  “I’ll be thankin’ ye now.” Maggie was vaguely aware that the gray had darkened. Her area of vision seemed to be shrinking with each beat of her heart. She did not lack for courage, but she did not need to watch him pull the arrow out of her.

  “You’ve a spine of steel, Maggie,” he praised her before pressing his warm lips to her clammy forehead.

  “And a head of granite,” she whispered before closing her eyes.

  She slipped into a dazed state of semi-awareness, then felt her body jerk forward, slamming into the wall of his chest. The movement forced the breath from her body as he pulled the shaft free. Numbness crept up from her toes, settling over her like a soft, warm blanket.

  “Tell Seamus I tried,” she whispered. Then the darkness pulled her under.

  Chapter Two

  U.S. Marshal, Joshua Turner’s thoughts were haunted by the unbearable loneliness he’d glimpsed in Maggie’s expressive eyes. Though he’d only seen it for a moment before it disappeared, his heart recognized a kindred spirit, someone who suffered as he did. He wondered briefly if she was the one before coming back to reality. He had too many other things more pressing at the moment—the first of which would be to find a doctor to tend her wound.

  With each mile they rode, his thoughts turned from the prospect of rustlers to the beautiful woman in his arms. She’d captivated him from the moment he’d set foot on that stage and looked into eyes the color of cornflowers. Since that moment his mind had been plagued with questions.

  Who was she?

  Where was she headed?

  Was she going to meet family?

  Was she as alone in the world as he?

  And who the hell was Seamus?

  He dared a glance down at the semi-conscious woman. Pain leached all color from her petal-soft complexion until it was nearly translucent. She lay perfectly still, reminding him of the moment he’d noticed the arrow pinning her to the seat.

  He clenched his jaw; he had a job to do and couldn’t waste any more time. He always put the job first; it was why he was never in one place long. His superiors knew he’d get the job done and bring in his man. The last few miles of the journey to the nearest town—Milford—flew by as he held her close, careful to keep pressure on the nasty wound.

  Although Miss Brown had offered to keep pressure on Maggie’s wound on the way to town, the road to town was deeply rutted from the weather and wooden wheels. Blaze’s gait was far smoother than any coach ride, and besides his horse could ride next to the road—avoiding the worst of the ruts. Maggie had lost so much blood already; he didn’t want to risk her losing more.

  Drawing in a deep breath surrounded him with her soft, feminine scent. It called to him, tantalizing him. He set his jaw and gritted his teeth. He had no time for distractions. He fought the need to inhale more of her sweet scent. Joshua held his breath and bit the inside of his cheek before heaving a sigh of exasperation. It was no use—he was too tired not to give in to the need that overpowered him. Burying his face in her hair, he breathed in the haunting scent of lavender and rain.

  The timing was all wrong. There was no time to think about women—especially a beautiful redhead with skin the color of fresh cream with a sprinkling of freckles. He was a two-day hard ride from his destination and latest assignment. He had cattle rustlers to catch and land fraud to investigate. Any one of the cavalry detachments he tagged along with through hostile territory could have seen Maggie safely into town, allowing him to continue on to the job that awaited him.

  The last week of travel had been brutal. Stopping to rescue a damsel in distress had not been part of his plan. But exhausted as he was, he would not have trusted anyone else to carry Maggie into town. The thought of another man holding her in his arms, chafed like a brand-new pair of Levi’s after a cloudburst.

  ***

  The unusual sight of a man riding into town with an unconscious woman bleeding in his arms seemed to attract attention. He glanced over his shoulder. Maybe it was the sight of the arrow-riddled stagecoach and Army escort following along behind him. A long line of people behind him stopped in their tracks and pointed at him.

  A scruffy-looking man stood gawking on the boardwalk in front of Smith’s Dry Goods Store. “Can you tell me where I can find the sheriff?” Joshua asked.

  The man shut his gaping mouth long enough to answer, “Three doors down on the left.”

  “Doctor?”

  The man’s gaze shifted to the inert form of the injured woman and then to the bloodstained cloth wrapped around her arm. His eyes bugged out.

  “Doc’s over t’ the Chicken Ranch deliverin’ a baby,” a tall thin man answered.

  “Chicken Ranch?” Since when did a man of medicine doctor chickens and help hatch eggs?

  The thin man squinted up at the badge on Joshua’s chest and smiled. “That’s
right, Marshal, Pearl’s Place.”

  Impatience simmered to a low boil. He didn’t have time to waste. He ignored the man’s exaggerated wink, saying, “I take it Pearl doesn’t raise just chickens.”

  “She sure don’t—in fact—”

  He looked away from the man and asked, “Anyone else know anything about arrow wounds?”

  “I’d be happy to help, Marshal.”

  He looked over his shoulder and noticed a gray-haired woman standing in the doorway of the dry goods store. With her proprietary air, she could be the owner’s wife. While he watched, she crossed her arms beneath her bosom and stared at the tin star on his chest.

  “Mrs. Smith?”

  “That’s right, Marshal.”

  “I’d be much obliged for the help, ma’am.”

  He shifted Maggie in his arms, careful not to jostle her injured arm as he dismounted. His boot heels echoed across the dry boards of the weather-worn walkway lining the streets in front of the stores. The sound of petticoats swishing broke the silence as he followed the woman inside.

  “Taylor!” the woman called out. “Clear off the bed in the back room!”

  A stocky middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and wire-rimmed spectacles rushed to the front of the store. “Ida—what on earth?”

  “No time, dear.” She looked at the young woman he still held tight to his chest. “The marshal needs our help. Move those bolts of cloth off the bed,” she instructed. “Then see if we still have that bit of tarpaulin left, and lay it on top of the bedspread.”

  She turned to Joshua. “You go along with my Taylor, while I fetch my supplies.”

  He stood for a moment, feeling as if he’d been thrown from an irate horse. Thought not a familiar feeling, it was one he had experienced and would not likely forget. The woman could fire off orders faster than General Macy.

  “Ida’s got a heart of gold.” Taylor shook his head. “And a tongue edged in steel. You’d think she was the one who served in the Army.”

  He started to agree with the man, then decided some things were best left unsaid. He nodded and followed Ida’s husband.

  While Taylor worked to clear the bed and spread the tarp, Joshua looked down at his precious burden. For some reason the loneliness he’d seen bothered him. Maybe because it echoed his own—calling to him. He brushed a wisp of auburn off her forehead, tempted to press his lips at the bottom edge of her widow’s peak. He caught himself in time. No use adding more rumors to the ones no doubt spreading through town like wildfire.

  “Marshal?”

  He dragged his eyes away from Maggie and met Taylor’s solemn gaze. “She’s lost a lot of blood.”

  The grim pronouncement hung in the air like a death knell. He knew from experience that her recovery could go either way. So many times, he’d been on the receiving end of an arrow or bullet. More than once he’d dug a lead plug from his own hide and fought wound fever lying on his bedroll out in the middle of the desert. His horse as his only company and a bottle of red-eye whiskey to kill the pain.

  “Ida’ll know what to do.”

  “Step back—step back!” The woman barreled into the room; her arms loaded down with strips of linen and a basket overflowing with odds and ends that looked suspiciously like sewing supplies.

  “Best to do as she says,” Taylor whispered.

  “I heard that.”

  The older man shrugged and grinned. “Now what fun would it be if you hadn’t?”

  Ida frowned and put her hands on her hips, “Taylor Smith—”

  He walked over to his wife and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You just holler if you need my help, honey.”

  The starch seemed to go right out of her at her husband’s words. Joshua noticed the corner of her mouth lifting before she turned and looked at him. The faint trace of smile disappeared. She was all business when she commanded, “Tell me what happened while I remove this bandage.”

  “I got there after the Indian’s attacked.”

  “Great-grandmother!” Ida placed a hand to her ample breast before collecting herself. She turned back to Maggie and snipped through the bandage with a small, pointed pair of shears.

  While she worked, deftly cleaning the area around the wound, he shifted from one foot to the other, flinching every time she touched the hole in Maggie’s arm. “She was pinned to the seat when I got there.”

  She sucked in a breath and let it go. “Land sakes, the poor thing. My poor Taylor suffered from an arrow wound or two years ago. Horribly painful and they bleed like crazy.”

  “And then some.”

  Without lifting her head, Ida asked, “Why don’t you use that basin of water over there and wash up.”

  He looked down at his blood-stained hands and started to object, thinking of telling her he had to leave, when he noticed a tiny sliver of arrow embedded in his palm. He hadn’t seen it until now. Deftly gripping the bit of wood buried in the callused skin, he worked it free.

  Blood welled up from the deep puncture wound. He touched a fingertip to the tiny pool nestled in his palm, mingling his blood with Maggie’s. A surge of emotion ripped through him remembering bits and pieces of a long-forgotten tale of his great-grandmother’s Scottish wedding ceremony. Maggie bled from an arrow wound—he bled from a sliver from the same arrow. He shook his head, but couldn’t dislodge the thought that Maggie belonged to him now. It wasn’t the ceremonial slice from his dirk on their wrists—followed by pledges of love to one another—but the feeling that she belonged to him took hold and would not let go.

  Joshua was rocked to the depths of his soul. He had not thought about his family in years. Why should he suddenly remember Meg McTavish’s strange marriage ceremony?

  He looked up and noticed Mrs. Smith beckoning to him. “I’m going to need a hand holding her arm still while I stitch it up.”

  His mouth went dry.

  “My Taylor’s a brave man,” she continued. “You understand?”

  His head still reeled—filled with ancient rites and pledges of never-ending love, but he managed to nod his agreement.

  She sighed and confided, “He just can’t stand the thought of a needle piercing flesh. Best wash up—I can’t do this alone.”

  He gritted his teeth. Of all the means available to care for a wound, a needle and thread bothered him the most. But the look in Mrs. Smith’s eyes didn’t leave room for excuses. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Hands clean, shirtsleeves rolled up, he was ready. Maggie stirred when Ida poured a strong-smelling solution on the wound.

  “What is that?”

  “Carbolic acid. Doc keeps a supply here. More often than not, he’s off delivering babies at the Ranch when there are people who really need him.”

  “Ranch?”

  “Pearl’s Place.” Her clipped tone ended any further questions he might have had.

  “Ida?” the gravelly voice wasn’t her husband. Joshua looked over his shoulder as a man walked through the doorway.

  “Doc! You’re just in time.” She squinted up at Joshua. “I don’t believe the marshal was looking forward to holding this poor thing’s arm still while I sewed the hole closed.”

  “Did you clean it out?” Doc asked.

  Joshua had the pleasure of watching Ida Smith turn her glittering gaze on someone other than himself. He rolled down his sleeves and turned to go when the doctor called out, “Why don’t you fill me in on what happened, Marshal, while I wash up and sew this young woman’s wound closed.”

  Ida’s husband wasn’t the only one squeamish around needles. His stomach flopped over at the thought of the sharp needle piercing Maggie’s lovely white flesh. He had been trying to avoid looking at the gaping wound, but his gaze kept wandering back to it.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he silently asked for strength—but somewhere in the middle of his prayer, he tangled up the words, asking instead for the strength to leave Maggie. He couldn’t walk away when he was needed.

  By the time he had relayed
what he knew, and answered Doc’s numerous questions about how he had removed the arrow, Doc had patched up his patient. There wasn’t any other reason to stay. He’d done his duty—removed the arrow and found a doctor to care for Maggie. He thanked the doctor and Mrs. Smith and turned to leave. A hint of lavender and rain teased his senses as a gentle breeze blew toward him from the open window, beckoning him to Maggie’s side.

  Baffled by his desire to stay, he dug deep to put thoughts of ancient ceremonies, mingled blood, and fiery-haired women from his mind. He had to track down cattle rustlers and get to the bottom of numerous claims of land fraud.

  The need to leave warred with the desire to stay. Desire lost.

  Chapter Three

  By the time he’d left the sheriff’s office, he was bone-tired, hungry and as irritable as a grizzly woken up before the last thaw melted.

  At least the local law did not put up a fuss when he charged him with looking after Maggie. In fact the sheriff seemed to feel it his duty to check up on Maggie while she recovered. The Smiths argued to keep her with them. Ida had been horrified by the bachelor doctor’s suggestion that he move Maggie over to his surgery, insisting it would not be extra work for her to care for the injured woman. It would be her pleasure.

  He just wished Maggie had been able to stay awake long enough to answer some of his questions—hell even answering one would have helped.

  Time was short, given the two days that would be chewed up riding to his destination just outside of Emerson. He had to concentrate on the job at hand, not the feisty beauty, or the disturbing thought that they were forever linked. Two steps away from the livery stable, where Mr. Smith had taken Blaze, thoughts of Maggie’s petal-smooth skin and flame-bright hair pulled him back. Like a man sleepwalking in the dead of night, he had no idea how he came to be standing in the Smith’s back room—again. But the pale woman who lay sleeping on the narrow bedstead was why he stood there.

  She’s the one.

  He reached out to touch the tips of his fingers to her forehead when a voice stopped him.

  “Can I help you, Marshal?”